


Ink Stained Pages

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe- Twin MUs, Ficlets, Gen, Liberal Headcanon Insertion, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 10,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4585206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever really told Aviae what being an army tactician would really be like, but then, she wouldn't have listened anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maps

**Author's Note:**

> Less pithy-bullshitty title: A Very Particular Female MU (Who Holds Quite a Bit of Significance in my Other Works but That's Neither Here nor There) and Her Very Individualized and Headcanon-Heavy Relationships with Most of the Shepherds, and also There May be Plot because I Cannot Leave Well Enough Alone, Sorry-not-Sorry
> 
> Expect a lot of headcanon re: shipping, worldbuilding, gender/sexuality, the way things generally work in-universe, and other bullshit you didn't think about.
> 
> Alternate Universe: Ryan Fucks Everything Up

Aviae’s name was written in old Plegian script on the inside of the front cover of one of the journals, and it smelled of pliant leather and palm leaves. When she saw her room in the barracks, she put her books on the empty shelf and opened the shutters and hung her coat on the back of the chair, and it felt like home.  
  
Some of them trusted her. Some didn’t. But it wasn’t Aviae’s place to make them.  
  
She unrolled a big map of the world and fixed it to the stone wall with lumps of wax. It was time to do her job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short n sweet just the way i like it


	2. Journals

One of the books was blank save for a note in old Plegian script on the front page. Another was half-full of inked illustrations of desert townscapes and everyday items. A third was full of pressed flowers and leaves.  
  
“How can you read that?” Chrom asked her one day, pointing to the script in her notebook, and Aviae had shrugged.  
  
“I just can,” she had said, and went back to moving the pieces on the board.  
  
Chrom didn’t fully trust her yet. But he had given her somewhere to go, something to do, and for that, Aviae didn’t force his trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its probably not too much of a stretch to imagine the fe universe has different forms of language and if it is too fuckin bad


	3. Plegian

She was from Plegia.  
  
The books said Plegia was a wealthy desert country west of Ylisse, ruled by a king named Gangrel. Its people were very often practiced fighters and mages, though it lacked much of a cavalry and its warships hadn’t seen very much use. Save for the groups of bandits attacking border towns, Plegia had tended to keep to itself, behind mountain ranges that made natural borders to its neighbors.  
  
And it was Aviae’s home, but none of the words in Miriel’s book felt like hearing the name for the first time. The examples of Plegian script and language in another book felt stiff and scripted, nothing like the natural tambres and cadensces of how Aviae spoke it as easily as breathing. The words didn’t look like the ink that had written them had truly moved, capturing the word’s intent in strokes of a quill. It didn’t look like home.  
  
“Where are the other books about Plegia?” she asked once, after finishing the four Miriel had produced.  
  
Miriel had shaken her head. “There are none.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i havent read that many fics where mu actively embraces their plegian heritage so this is one of them


	4. Specialty

Strategy came easily to her.  
  
Information organized itself as easily as breathing— she saw every possibility at once like she was watching the battlefield from above, saw how a skirmish would turn out before it began. She knew by heart what weapon would attack best against which foe, who fought better with whom, how one option would turn out differently than another. The flow of battle showed itself to her like pages in a book.  
  
But she had to remind herself, it wasn’t a game. She was responsible for the lives of good people, people that deserved to live even if they may not think of her as trustworthy. If Chrom could see the good in her, along with each and every one of his Shepherds, she was in no place to be the judge of who lived and who died.  
  
And she had books she had filled with information— there was her record of the convoy, everything anyone had on their person at any time, and her roster of everyone in the army and a little bit about them, and a logbook of every battle they’d been in and the way it’d turned out. And one about who got along well with whom, who spoke to whoever else and what their relationship was like. There was a record of strategies, a guide to weapons she’d seen, a book about information about this world she’d found herself in. That made five books in total, and the diary she kept made six. And every book had a spot in her coat, and her coat was never more than two feet from her person at any time.  
  
Aviae was the army’s strategist, and she kept books filled with Plegian writing about how to best do her job.  
  
No one was going to die on her watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote the first 4 chapters all at once is it too obvious


	5. Mending

Aviae’s coat was thick and heavy and it unarguably belonged on her body.  
  
“Is it finished yet?” she asked Frederick for the sixth time in thirty minutes, gloved hands resting on her bare upper arms. She couldn’t explain why she felt so strange without her coat, but she just did. It felt like she was a child’s balloon tied to the earth on a bobbing string, threatening to come undone at any moment. It felt like her thoughts were scattered without some sort of weight keeping them all gathered. She felt useless like this, unable to focus on her books and strategy no matter how much she loved them. She almost wanted to cry.  
  
“Not yet,” Frederick replied for the sixth time in thirty minutes. “Nearly there, though. If you’re cold, my sweater is on the back of the chair.”  
  
“Your sweater is too light,” Aviae complained, though she knew he meant well. “It feels like a tent on me. And it doesn’t have any pockets!”  
  
“Few sweaters knit in such a matter do,” Frederick mumbled. His sewing needle moved through the heavy Plegian silk with practiced steadiness, mending the tear it’d earned in the last battle. “Milady, your coat will be as good as new when I’m finished, I assure you. There is no need to fret so.”  
  
There was too a need to fret, but Aviae felt like she’d tear her hair out in frustration if she tried to explain it— and probably cry, too. The rest of the world just didn’t make sense sometimes and nothing would work out the way she wanted them to.  
  
The last stitch came out, and then Frederick cut the thread and tied it so it wouldn’t come undone. Aviae, who had been crouched in a chair next to him, watching closely so she’d know if he messed up mending her beloved coat, watched as he stood, picking up the coat by its collar and setting it gently over her shoulders.  
  
Aviae allowed herself to breathe a little deeper. “Thank you, Frederick.”  
  
Frederick tucked a strand of ruddy frizz out of her face. “Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real talk that coat looks comfy as shit i'd wear it 24/7 too if i had one


	6. Acknowledged

Aviae had a team.  
  
It was a bit silly, true, but _some_ one had to be on stepladder duty for Aviae when she needed to reach something stacked up high in the convoy. And since it was easier to grab the nearest tall person than to run around the camp looking for someone in particular, the Aviae Lifting Team was born.  
  
It was less lifting and more climbing, rather, but Aviae was the one doing the climbing. Usually the suspects were those wearing armor— Kellam was a likely target, as was Stahl, and Sully at times. (Chrom, although he’d most definitely allow it, was too short to really be of use.)  
  
Really, it was most often Kellam. He’d be standing in the convoy, looking for an extra bottle of ink or something, and in would come Aviae with her quill and her books and ink on her face and bits of wax under her nails, and scale him like a scrubby desert tree until she was perched upon his shoulders and using his head as a desk.  
  
“Don’t move,” she’d say, scratching down numbers and notes in her book. “I won’t be long. It’s your turn on water duty, by the way.”  
  
Kellam wondered how she remembered to work him into all her schedules. Either way, even if he was being climbed on, it was kind of nice to be noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've always been partial to kellam of course i give him a day in the limelight here


	7. Amalgamate

She cried easily.  
  
It made her incredibly angry that she did— which, since she cried when she was angry, was an understandably vicious cycle. It wasn’t graceful crying, either. It was puffed-out hair and red cheeks and a trembling lower lip and clenched teeth and clenched fists, and a magical spark in the back of her mind that tinted her vision red and told her to _tear everything apart because none of it matters anyway,_ and it made her glasses fog up to an uncomfortable level.  
  
The funny part was she got angry often enough at ordinary things that it was becoming something the Shepherds were accustomed to. Aviae was sure they poked fun at it behind her back— whoever heard of a tactician that cried at everything! Surely it was only a matter of time before everyone started to treat her like the crybaby younger sister, even though she was the same age as Chrom.  
  
Miriel understood, though Aviae still didn’t know why. She considered herself Miriel’s friend, even though there was a lot she didn’t know about the elder mage.  
  
“I hate crying,” she stammered out one day, while tears dripped down her cheeks and stained her glasses again.  
  
“Why do you cry?” Miriel asked, analytical as ever.  
  
“Nothing is working the way I want it to,” Aviae admitted, rubbing her eyes on her forearm. The rough fabric made her eyes sting, but she didn’t really care. “I bet another tactician wouldn’t cry about it. I’m not working the right way, either.”  
  
Miriel hummed thoughtfully, her quill scratching away in her notebook. She made no move to comfort Aviae, but Aviae wasn’t sure she’d accept it either way.  
  
“Does your mother’s book say anything about why people cry?” Aviae asked thickly, cleaning off her glasses on her skirt.  
  
“Mm, no,” Miriel said pensively. “It is lacking in such particulars on the subject of this particular complex secretomotor phenomenon.”  
  
“I thought so,” Aviae mumbled miserably. “Maybe I’m not fit to be a tactician, if I break down every time something doesn’t go my way.”  
  
Miriel tutted. “I disagree,” she said matter-of-factly, a statement that made Aviae look up in surprise. “Perhaps it’s merely the manner of expressing that things have become piled upon you too highly for you to handle it all in a manner the general adult public would consider ‘adequately.’ Many excellent thinkers and scholars experienced such feelings at times.”  
  
Aviae was too stunned to reply for a minute. “Even you?” she ventured.  
  
That gave Miriel a moment’s pause. “At times,” she admitted. Then she glanced over at Aviae, and gave her one of her rare little smiles. “The general adult public is decidedly not the same audience as the Shepherds. They are… all a little unique. You amalgamate well.”  
  
Hearing her say that lifted Aviae’s spirits considerably. “Thanks, Miriel.”  
  
“Of course. Now please release me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> science gals being science pals


	8. Stone

Ylisse didn’t trust her.  
  
Chrom would say they would with time, but Aviae wasn’t good with time. She could feel their distrust seeping into her bones and for no good reason at all it made her feel fuzzy and unfocused. With Ylisse and Plegia officially at war, and Aviae the tactician for the side of Ylisse, it felt like she was already failing if the people didn’t even believe she was going to help win this war for them.  
  
It was bothersome, but if Aviae kept herself busy, she could pretend it wasn’t happening. Chrom always accompanied her on supply runs, mostly because he could manage to carry all she bought and she was always busy marking things off in her book.  
  
“Say, Aviae,” Chrom said to her on one run, glancing around at the market stalls. “Do you think anyone buys used weapons? You were complaining about excess in the convoy the other day.”  
  
“Oh, I took care of it,” Aviae insisted. “Anyone will buy anything if they want it badly enough. Or, well, if you convince them they—“  
  
She didn’t get a chance to finish. A rock sailed through the air and hit her in the side of her head, just above her ear, hard enough she saw stars and fell to the side, bumping into Chrom and landing hard on her knees. She could feel cool air rushing over moisture seeping out through her frizzy hair— that’d bleed a lot, head wounds always did.  
  
“Aviae!” Chrom yelped, crouching beside her and setting his hands on her shoulders. “Can you stand? Should I call for a healer?”  
 Aviae didn’t respond at first, putting a hand to her spinning head. “Chrom, I can’t hear you over all the ringing. There’s no need to shout.”  
  
Chrom growled, scanning the crowd. It was an unpleasantly familiar situation to him— first his elder sister, now his friend. Was someone going to throw a stone at Lissa, too?  
  
Aviae lifted her head, forcing herself to stand even with blood dripping down the side of her head. “Chrom?”  
  
He reluctantly stood. “When I find the dastard that threw that rock, I swear to all the gods…”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” Her cold tone took him by surprise. “I’m not welcomed here. I should’ve expected this to happen.”  
  
Chrom wanted to pick her up and carry her back to camp, just so he knew she wouldn’t injure herself worse trying to walk with her head like that, but that was not a sentiment they shared. Aviae had her head held high, her posture as tall as she could make it, her pride still intact as she walked back to camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully she doesnt trip on her way back that would suck


	9. Worry

Lissa patched her up that time, but Maribelle had quite a lot to say about the unruly behavior of those citizens.  
  
“The _gall!_ “ she exclaimed first, incredibly offended that a village near _her_ township would think to do such a thing. “How utterly uncouth! To think they thought you one of those Plegian war dogs. If I had the authority, I would march right out there to whatever boor threw that rock and demand he apologize!”  
  
“Maribelle, this is the _medical tent,_ “ Lissa chided her friend, as she poured a portion of the liquid in a concoction onto a cloth. The scent of the numbing medicinal liquid filled the air, making Aviae feel a little woozy already, which was the reason all the healers had to wear masks when dealing with it. It mostly smelled of various herbs, but there was a hint of something citrusy in there. Lemons? “If you get any louder, you’ll wake the comatose. Again!”  
  
Maribelle humphed primly behind her mask, tossing ringlets over her shoulder. “Well, I’m not wrong. I’m almost glad Chrom didn’t find whoever threw that rock, so I can track him down and make him apologize instead!”  
  
Wasn’t waking the comatose a good thing? But Aviae didn’t have much to say to that, since the concoction’s fumes were not a thing she was used to. The sting of it numbing and cleaning her wound, yes— the perfume of it, no.  
  
“We’re moving on tomorrow, anyway,” Lissa said reasonably. “Hold still, Aviae, please. Back to Ylisstol. It won’t matter by then.”  
  
“Lissa, my treasure, you are a dear,” Maribelle said, setting her hand on Lissa’s shoulder. “I almost wonder how one as sweet as you was drafted into this. But I reserve my right to be angry and complain as much as I so please.”  
  
Lissa sighed and shook her head, taking her staff in one hand and cupping her other over Aviae’s gash. “I don’t think it’s fair, either, and it’s super gross of anyone to throw rocks at people, but still. Besides, you didn’t trust Aviae at first either, did you? This might sting a little, by the way, Avi.”  
  
Maribelle paused, looking at Aviae like she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. Aviae wasn’t sure if she could judge what Maribelle ended up saying, either way— her head still felt fuzzy around the edges and the feeling of flesh being magically knit back together was a strange one.  
  
“Perhaps I did have doubts,” Maribelle admitted. “Not entirely based on national prejudices, mind you, I do try to keep above that sort of thing, but… perhaps I was worried you would get hurt.”  
  
Lissa giggled, finally finishing with Aviae’s gash. “You worry too much, Mari. But it’ll be great having you around again!”  
  
“I should thank you,” Maribelle said to Aviae, with a little smile, though Aviae wasn’t paying much attention to anything except the weaving at her cuffs. (Was it always so intricate? Fascinating.) “Er… when you recover from the air in here, I mean. You are indeed an excellent addition to this cause.”  
  
Aviae couldn’t explain why, but she felt a fuzzy smile come onto her face around then. It was nice to feel appreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added to the list of things ryan overthinks: hp healing


	10. Rest

Maybe if she came up with a plan good enough, the war would end and the people of Ylisse would trust her.  
  
She had spread out a map as big as she was over the floor of her tent, weighted down with books. She had covered it in her notes, handwriting shaky, mapping out terrains based on area maps and every possible outcome she could think of. The healed gash on the side of her head throbbed painfully every time she tried to think harder, but she refused to submit to it. There had to be a way. Something was going to happen, she could sense it, and there just had to be a way to stop it.  
  
There were tears running down her face and bags under her eyes, and she couldn’t care less about them.  
  
The shuffle of the tent flap prompted her to look up to the now-unsurprising sight of a large rabbit-like beast with glowing red eyes crouched in the entrance of the tent. Aviae sighed, taking her glasses off and rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. “Did you need something, Panne?”  
  
_“You missed dinner,”_ Panne noted passively. _“And lunch. In fact, I haven’t seen you leave this tent since we arrived here.”_  
  
“I’m working,” Aviae tried to say, but Panne was clearly not having any of it. She made a sound that might’ve been a humph, and Aviae could practically envision her raising an eyebrow, unconvinced.  
  
_“The other man-spawn seem concerned,”_ Panne replied. _“Something about the fact that you creatures need sunlight and more than one meal per day to live. Might I come in? It’s rather strange to stand in a doorway.”_  
  
“I’ve gotten plenty of sunlight,” Aviae protested, which wasn’t true at all and Panne knew it. “You can. I’m sorry about the mess.”  
  
Panne padded quietly into the tent, sniffing at one of the maps. _“Quite detailed,”_ she noted, which was the closest thing to praise Panne ever dished out. The notes in shaky Plegian script were still drying, but Aviae wouldn’t be able to make any more, since all her ink bottles were empty and knocked over a foot away. She was surprised all her qulls hadn’t broken.  
  
“I have to be detailed,” Aviae sighed. “Something is going to happen, Panne. I don’t know what it is, or when, but maybe… maybe if I prepare for it, stop it before it happens, the people if Ylisse will trust me.” The healed cut stung, and Aviae rubbed it idly with her hand.  
  
_“No one can see the future,”_ Panne replied, sitting herself down near the edge, careful not to knock over anything. _“Not unless she has lived it. It seems highly irrational to spend your limited energy worrying about an event that may not even come.”_  
  
Aviae sighed, looking at her scribbled notes that became less intelligible as they went on, and the smudges of ink on her shaky hands. “Maybe you’re right,” she mumbled. Her head ached so badly, she wasn’t sure how much louder she could make her voice before startling herself.  
  
Panne let out a sigh, and gestured for Aviae to sit next to her with her head. Aviae wished she had a form she could shift into so people wouldn’t bother her or ask her questions. That would’ve been useful. Maybe a griffon, or one of those strange silvery horse-dragon creatures she’d seen in books.  
  
Aviae complied, rubbing at her heavy eyes. “Why are you really here, Panne?” she found herself asking.  
  
Panne lifted her shoulders. _“You kept everyone alive and unharmed in the last battle. Consider it thanks.“_  
  
“You don’t need to thank me,” Aviae murmured. Panne’s fur felt so soft under her hands, and the flickering of the candle she had burning made her feel warm and heavy. “I’m only… doing… my job…”  
  
_“Rest,”_ Panne ordered. _“Argue with me in the morning, child.”_  
  
Aviae felt so tired, she didn’t argue, and fell asleep with her cheek in soft fur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i bet taugels make great pillows tbh look at all that fluff


	11. Nightmare

One night she dreamed of blood.  
  
There was darkness, but blurry forms of attacking soldiers took on shades of red and brown. Her vision shifted at every minute, and her breathing was thick. She felt tall, for some reason, and one lens of her spectacles had a crack across it. She heard someone cry out in pain, a green and white-tinted form, and before she knew what she was doing her vision turned crimson and she jumped straight into the axe meant for the unknown form in danger.  
  
She heard a sickening sound of bone and flesh messily being torn apart by a dulled blade, and unbearable, searing pain followed an instant later. She fell to her side, clutching her arm— or rather, where her arm had been— and felt blood, so much blood, gushing through her fingers.  
  
She didn’t remember screaming, but when her eyes finally shot open, her throat felt raw and Chrom had a hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake, and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. Her nails had dug crescents into the skin of her other shoulder— the other shoulder connected to an arm she still had.  
  
It was a dream, she slowly realized, her breathing slowly returning to normal, as she looked up at Chrom, crouched above her, and seemingly half the camp that’d rushed into her tent. And yet, it didn’t feel like one. Despite the surreal filter of it, it felt like it was really happening. Her arm was still there, not even hurt.  
  
She sat up, running a hand through her sweaty hair. Everything anyone was trying to say turned to static as she stared at her other hand, the hand she could’ve sworn she’d seen fall to the ground with the rest of her arm. And yet her glasses were unbroken, she felt as short as ever, and a companion in green and white was nowhere to be found.  
  
“Are you alright?” Chrom seemed to be trying to say, and Aviae stared hard at the blurry form of her knees under the blanket.  
  
She honestly didn’t know how to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youre not supposed to know who the dream peeps are yet sorry (unless i told you)


	12. Present

Aviae seemed to have gotten herself in quite the predicament.  
  
She hadn’t even realized there was so much yarn, nor had she realized that the frenzy of knitting that came about trying to calm herself down would be quite so dangerous. She was fairly sure if she tried to wriggle free, both she and her chair would fall to the ground with a crash. How had the chair even been roped into it? It was just knitting!  
  
Alright, yes, people were all different and all of that, but that didn’t stop Aviae from wanting to find whoever decided knitting was a good way to calm down and punch them in the face.  
  
Frederick found her there when she failed to show up for dinner— tangled in pink yarn, trying hopelessly to reach the scissors that’d skittered just out of reach.  
  
“What is…” he trailed off, then realized words weren’t really sufficient.  
  
“A scarf,” Aviae muttered feebly. “At least, I tried to make it a scarf. Please help.”  
  
Frederick obliged, as was his way— he cut through knots in the yarn Aviae had managed to make, and eventually freed the army tactician from the brightly-colored trap. How had she managed to do all that with a pair of knitting needles? It was kind of amazing. But then, Aviae had ways of doing things that defied logic, and not just her manner of performing strategic miracles.  
  
“I know I shouldn’t ask, but,” Frederick paused, after freeing Aviae from the coral-colored confines of knotted yarn. “Why exactly did you try to knit? I wasn’t aware you knew how.”  
  
“It was supposed to be your birthday present,” Aviae mumbled. “And… well, you’re always doing things for me, and for the Shepherds, so I wanted to thank you somehow. I was going to buy something, but I didn’t want to get something generic, and you’re hard to shop for, so I thought I would make something. Only I can’t draw or make crafts or anything like that, but I hadn’t tried knitting, so I thought… well, you see where that got me.”  
  
Frederick thought about saying something about his birthday being yesterday, but he held his tongue, and smiled. “Hearing you say it is thanks enough,” he decided. “I am glad to be of help to you, and to the Shepherds at large. But, er… perhaps next time, keep the scissors closer to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its okay avi i cant knit either


	13. Wishes

Her birthday was in September, but she didn’t know how old she was.  
  
She hadn’t even known the fourth was her birthday until Chrom asked, and the answer came with little thought. That was the way it was with her memories— scraps were still there, she just lost access to them until the right prompting came along to light up the path once more, and it was like they’d always been there. Her name had always been Aviae, her favorite color had always been silver, she’d always been from Plegia and her birthday had always been on September fourth. It was frustrating that none of those scraps ever led anywhere else, even though by all means they should if she thought about it a little more, but the rest of her head felt empty of any memories of her old life except for those fundamental little scraps clinging to the walls.  
  
It felt odd to know it was one’s birthday but not know how old one was, and Aviae was becoming very familiar with that feeling. And yet everyone she saw wished her a happy birthday, and a few of the Shepherds that knew her better got her a little something as a gift. By the evening, she had filled a wooden box with trinkets she’d been given— there were new bottles of ink from Miriel, a little charm from Sumia, a pretty quill from Lissa and a pocket mirror from Maribelle. Kellam had given her a pocketknife (just in case), Stahl a little tin of candies, and Panne had gifted a rock, which Aviae didn’t really understand but wouldn’t question. Frederick, since Aviae had tangled up all the yarn, had made her a small cake they had since eaten.  
  
Chrom came by her tent later that evening to give her a lovely little book of Ylisse maps, but he lingered in the doorway as she flipped through the book with a little smile on her face, and tucked it gently into the box with the rest.  
  
“Say, Aviae,” Chrom began, like he always did when he wanted to talk to her, fiddling idly with one of his gloves. “It’s been some time since you joined the Shepherds, hasn’t it?”  
  
“Six months and thirteen days,” Aviae replied matter-of-factly. Which was a fairly long time, after all. Long enough that people had gotten used to her, certainly. They had Shepherds now that didn’t know any tactician _besides_ Aviae.  
  
Chrom chuckled. “Yes, exactly,” he said in that way that meant he didn’t quite understand why Aviae acted the way she did, but he would never bother wondering about it. To him, it was just a little quirk of behavior, like Sumia’s flower fortunes or Frederick’s loyalty or Lissa’s pranks.  
  
“Why do you ask?” Aviae questioned, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t like him to bring up dates. He was more apt to forgetting them.  
  
“Well, I had a thought,” he pondered. Aviae resisted making a snarky but well-intended comment about how unusual that was. “About how much you’ve really brought to the Shepherds. I never thought we’d be where we are now those months ago, when we found you.”  
  
“I keep everyone alive, I should hope I bring _something_ to this army,” Aviae said with a shrug, testing her new quill and ink on a scratch piece of parchment.  
  
“Yes, but, more than that,” Chrom insisted. “You’ve turned the Shepherds from a group of do-gooding wannabe fighters-for-justice with the royal seal of approval to a genuine army for the protection of Ylisse. You do keep everyone alive, but you also keep them happy and organized. I know all the work you do, you know.”  
  
Aviae wanted to brush it off, tell him it was just her job, but she didn’t, the tips of her ears pink beneath her hair.  
  
“My point is, Aviae,” he continued. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we met. I think we’re… connected, you and I. Somehow, I think we are.”  
  
“What are you trying to say, Chrom?” Aviae asked, her cheeks flushing a bit. Chrom had looked at a random spot in her tent, a smile on his face that seemed more like he was trying to seem casual and friendly than that he was actually amused. Aviae didn’t understand that— why would people smile when they didn’t mean it? It was like lying without words.  
  
“Well, it’s hard to phrase, exactly,” Chrom attempted, making a vauge motion with his hands. “I think we’re… well, _I_ consider us friends. And I think by now, we’re fairly good friends. Er, if that’s untoward, feel free to stop me.”  
  
Aviae wasn’t sure how to respond. “I know you appreciate my existence, but can you get on with whatever it is you’re trying to say?” she said bluntly, catching Chrom off-guard. He looked surprised for a minute, but he did that little chuckle again. _Oh, that Aviae, always so blunt and honest._ Aviae wondered what went through his head at times.  
  
“I think of you as my friend,” he finally said. “But more than that, by now, I think of you as my family. Like… like another little sister, almost. Does that make sense?”  
  
It took Aviae a full five seconds to respond, but when she did, the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.  
  
“I’m twenty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol you thought this was gonna be chrobin


	14. Curious

“And then you just _said_ it?”  
  
Aviae sighed, pushing her glasses up onto her forehead and pressing her fingers to her temples. Nowi cocked her head to the side, leaning forward like a curious puppy, or perhaps a curious young dragon.  
  
“I wasn’t _thinking_ about it,” Aviae tried to explain. “I apologized later, if that’s what this is about!”  
  
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” Nowi said nonchalantly. “It sounds kind of funny! Chrom was probably really embarrassed, huh?”  
  
“I’d assume so,” Aviae mumbled. “‘Little sister.’ I wonder just how old he thinks I am?”  
  
Nowi hummed, studying Aviae’s features. “Older than I look, I guess. But age is really funny with Manaketes! Just like a lot of things.” She frowned thoughtfully, and Aviae returned to copying over her notes. She couldn’t live with the chicken-scratch that was hurried penmanship across all her papers, after all. If she had to guess Nowi’s age, she’d say maybe thirteen, give or take— a little younger than Lissa. Aviae supposed it was a bit of a comfort she looked older than prepubescent.  
  
“Hey, why do you write like that, anyway?” Nowi asked, leaning over Aviae’s shoulder to examine her notes. “That’s some weird handwriting. I can’t even read it!” Although her elbow was at a prime position to whack Nowi in the ribs to make her stop _doing_ that, Aviae did no such thing, because that would be rude and she really did need to think before using violence to get people off her back. Miriel had said so.  
  
“It’s Plegian,” Aviae said with a shrug. “Another language. It just feels right.”  
  
“Ohh,” Nowi decided. “Manaketes have a form of writing, too, but I don’t know very much of it. Why does yours look so scratchy? Er, sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Aviae sighed. “I was tired at the time, I guess. My hands couldn’t keep up.”  
  
“It’s about strategy, isn’t it?” Nowi crouched next to her, leaning under Aviae’s arm to peer at the words. “The others told me that’s your thing. You keep everyone alive and organized. That’s pretty cool!”  
  
Under most circumstances, Aviae would’ve shrugged and agreed, then returned to what she was doing, but this was different. Something told her tricky formations and optimized supplies weren’t going to be enough, not for what they had planned. Everything was on her to make sure Chrom’s sister got home safely, and if she failed, it would be her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wild nowi appears


	15. Insomnia

The funny thing about failiure was that you didn’t know just how horrible it felt until you knew it was happening and you couldn’t stop it. You’d just have to watch, watch as everything you planned for fell apart before your eyes like sand in the wind. Watch as those around you, those who had _relied_ on you, damn it, turn their heads away like they were ashamed they’d ever listened, as they called you a failiure and a traitor in mumbles where you couldn’t tell who’d said what.  
  
She kept having that thought, a nagging red-tinged scene. The fourth night in a row it showed up in her dreams and woke her up in a cold, uneasy sweat, Aviae stopped sleeping.  
  
The next day, she’d find out if she really would be a failiure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone help this child


	16. Battlefield

Regna Ferox was cold, and all too apropro for the way the world felt.  
  
The operation to rescue Exalt Emmeryn had failed worse than Aviae would have thought possible. _Aviae_ had failed, and the little red voice in her head was doing an excellent job of convincing her the dreams she’d had about becoming a traitor and a liar and a failiure to the rest of the Shepherds were going to come true if she set foot outside the room in the soldier’s barracks in which she’d holed herself up.  
  
Nobody blamed her, but it wasn’t healthy, which was why Frederick had decided enough was enough. Emmeryn and Captain Phila were his best friends, yes, but he wasn’t about to sit around stewing over it, he’d go crazy. (And then there was the fact that Aviae may very well let herself starve if they didn’t make her eat something— Frederick wasn’t about to let that happen.)  
  
The door did not have a lock, so Frederick let himself in, a bowl of hot stew in one hand and a sewing kit in the other. Aviae had pulled the thick quilt off the bed and curled up under the desk with it, her beloved coat thrown carelessly over the back of the chair. Frederick recognized her tiny wax lumps etched with each Shepherd’s initials scattered around the desk, with a set of dice and her favorite quill and her ink bottles, and a battlefield map of Plegia Courtyard— the location of the battle that had gone horribly wrong. Her glasses were there, too, on an opened journal written in script he couldn’t read. It looked similar to the way her desk did when she fell asleep after a busy day of planning, but none of that had likely been touched in over a day.  
  
“Go away, Frederick,” Aviae mumbled, her face buried in the thick Feroxi blanket.  
  
How did she know it was him? He crouched, setting a hand on the desk for purchase. “I must refuse, milady.”  
  
“You can’t lure me out there,” she said stubbornly, her voice thick. “Not with all the bear meat stew in the world.” The lump of quilt that was Aviae shifted a bit, though, towards the smell of the hot meal. Even Aviae couldn’t resist forever. (He hoped she’d cave sooner rather than later— the smell was turning his stomach.)  
  
“I can assure you, I don’t intend to lure you outside,” Frederick promised. “But you need to eat. We can work up to going back outside.”  
  
She shifted again, eyeing the bowl of stew in Frederick’s hand. Though it was hard to see in the darkness, her eyes looked puffy. Or perhaps that was just because she was squinting, unable to see much without her glasses. It was hard to tell.  
  
“Am I a failiure, Frederick?” she asked hollowly, reaching for the bowl without knowing fully what her hands were doing. She said it like she’d already accepted it, a hopeless quality to her voice that made Frederick feel a pang of sadness.  
  
He couldn’t say she was— it wasn’t entirely true anyway, no one could’ve predicted the Plegian army playing dirty like they did— but she wasn’t going to believe it if he said she wasn’t.  
  
“One defeat does not make you a failiure,” he said instead.  
  
Aviae shook her head, idly stirring the stew with her spoon. “Strategy is supposed to be what I do, it’s why I’m here at all. Other than that, what am I good for? Being a half-decent shot with a crossbow? Hiding in cabinets and crying when things don’t work out? No wonder Ylisse doesn’t trust me— I got their queen killed.”  
  
Frederick scowled, wanting to put a hand on her shoulder and comfort her, but he knew by now that wouldn’t help. The worst part is there was a grain of truth there— even Frederick hadn’t trusted her at first, despite Chrom’s favor, and it’d taken some time for the rest of the Shepherds to warm up to her. Aviae was incredibly clever, more clever than she gave herself credit for, so it was no wonder she’d figured that out. Was that what she’d been stewing about for the past two days?  
  
“It won’t do you any good to do nothing but think about what went wrong,” he decided. “You are still alive, and so am I, and so are the rest of the Shepherds. We must take this time to regroup, to train, to plan for how we’ll dethrone the Mad King.”  
  
Aviae allowed herself to sniffle a little, but she was eating the soup with her tiny, shaking hands, so Frederick considered that a good thing. “Do I have to talk to the Shepherds yet?”  
  
“Not yet,” Frederick admitted. “You ought to get your strength back up first. I can’t imagine how much sitting in this room has sapped from you.”  
  
“Good thing I can eat strong meat,” she commented, more in-character already, and it made Frederick smile a litlte, even if it was a subtle insult to him.  
  
He let himself chuckle a little. “We can’t all have as refined a palate as you do, Aviae.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor avi she needs a hug


	17. Sorry

The plan was deceptively simple. Aviae and Chrom would pick the strongest units to go with them on the frontal assault, while everyone else assisted the Feroxi army. The defensive units would attack the right flank of Gangrel’s forces in pairs to take care of the wind mages and make it safer for the pegasus knights to go in with their added range of movement. A smaller force would go to the left, draw the attention of the warriors there, and naturally both groups would have to take at least one healer. Aviae herself would find her perch in the cover of the scrubby trees, keeping an eye on things and picking off enemies with her crossbow.  
  
“I don’t think I’ll need to partner with anyone,” she mused, as she finished explaining the plan to the assembled Shepherds. “So long as I stay relatively hidden, they’re not going to know I’m there for the most part.”  
  
Chrom hummed, examining the battlefield map Aviae had fixed to the table. The little lump of wax representing him had the Brand of the Exalt etched into it, and his name was carefully etched into the flat side. “What about Olivia?” he asked, glancing back up to Aviae. “There’s talk of her joining up, mostly from Basilio, but I’m not sure about her combat abilities.”  
  
Aviae frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that, I was sure we were all accounted for. Still, an additional unexpected ally is better than an additional unexpected enemy, so as long as she can hold her own in a fight, we _should_ be fine.”  
  
She heard the clanking of perpetual armor as Frederick shifted, folding his arms as if something were bothering him. “Will you be alright by yourself, milady?” he asked. “There is no telling what tricks that mad king may have up his sleeve. I suggest you at least position Libra in range.”  
  
“No, no, I have Libra on Chrom’s guard, over here,” Aviae retorted. “I’ll be fine, Frederick.”  
  
“You say that too often for me to believe it,” Frederick sighed. “I’m concerned. Are you certain you don’t need a visit to the medical tent?”  
  
“Very certain,” Aviae insisted, all business. “Anyway. Cordelia gave me the supply report, and it looks like we’re well-stocked on healing items, and everyone’s main weapons have a satisfactory amount of charges left, but it’s likely best if we stock up on lower-strength weapons as backup…”  
  
Aviae pretended she didn’t notice the way Frederick scowled then, as she jotted down her ideas on another piece of parchment next to the supply report. “If we get rid of those extra bullions we got from the last village, we should have enough to cover weapon expenses, especially since the Khans are allowing us to stay here without monetary cost. We should send someone into town to make the exchange— I think Sully will do, if she’s recovered enough from that fall.”  
  
Checking that item off her list, Aviae scanned the battlefield. “So that takes care of _that_ …” she hummed. “Any questions?”  
  
“Just one,” Chrom brought up, scratching at the back of his neck. “And, Aviae, please don’t take this the wrong way, but… are you sure this’ll work?”  
  
“Trust me, it will,” she said firmly, recognizing how those words might not have been the best choice in light of recent events the second they came out of her mouth. He had no real reason to trust her, not after all that’s happened. She promised she’d keep everyone safe, and then she’d gotten his sister killed. Of course he couldn’t see any reason to trust her.  
  
The strategy meeting adjourned, but while everyone else left, Chrom didn’t. He rolled one of the dice between his fingers like he wanted to help clean up, but didn’t know how to, or perhaps just wanted to look like he had a reason to stay there.  
  
Tension hung low in the air like a fog. Aviae tried to distract herself by rolling up her maps and capping her ink bottles, but she could feel Chrom’s eyes on the back of her neck. Was he suspicious? Or worse, was he thinking of how easy it’d be to stab his sword there and just do away with the risk that she was altogether? The latter seemed highly unlike Chrom, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen.  
  
She finally sighed and turned back to him. “Chrom, stop staring at me.”  
  
Chrom blinked. “How did you know I was—“  
  
“You’re not subtle. Besides, I’m sure half the camp wants to put a knife in my neck. It’s likely a smart idea to watch it.”  
  
“Aviae, that isn’t true,” Chrom tried to say. “Listen, I… it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
Aviae felt herself getting angry. He was just saying that to make her feel better, wasn’t he? She’d _gotten his sister killed._ How could he just say that it wasn’t her fault when everyone knew it was?  
  
“Oh, shut up,” she hissed, glaring at him through thick glasses. “You of all people know what happened was my fault! I’m not so fragile that you have to pretend everything’s fine and dandy or else I’ll break. Why aren’t you angry about that?”  
  
“Are you asking me to be angry at you?” Chrom frowned, sitting up in his chair.  
  
“No— yes— I don’t know,” Aviae growled in frustration, tugging at her hair. The edges of her vision were going red as the volume of the world increased. “Just— just don’t— shut up!”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Chrom said, and he was probably very level and patient about it, but Aviae was anything but. She clutched her head in her hands, her fingers tugging painfully at her hair, as she bowed forwards and pressed her elbows to the table. It wasn’t going the way it was supposed to— though if you asked her which way it was supposed to go, she wouldn’t be able to tell you.  
  
Chrom might have said something else, but it turned into a whirlwind of screaming. Her face felt too hot, her feet too cold, her brain too big for her head. She might’ve been crying or making noise, but she couldn’t tell. Poor Chrom didn’t know what to do, as an outside observer— anything he said seemed to fall on deaf ears.  
  
He tried to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder, frowning in concern. Only Aviae wasn’t having any of it, and shoved him away with more strength than he would’ve expected her to have. It was enough to send her chair toppling to the side, and she landed on the floor in a tight ball of frizzy red hair and her purple coat. Chrom bumped into the bookshelf and knocked a few books onto the floor, staggering back in surprise.  
  
But at least she was moving now, her form shaking with uneven sobs muffled by her coat. Her glasses had skittered to the side, but she didn’t seem to care. Nothing was working the way it was supposed to and she couldn’t say what she wanted to say, and everything felt too loud and harsh and often, and covering her ears didn’t help.  
  
Chrom sat down next to her, picking her glasses up and inspecting them for cracks. When she calmed down, she’d want those, and she hated cracks on her lenses.  
  
Something told Aviae this was not the first time something like this has happened. She removed her hands from her ears and pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. She wished it were heavier, but not in that it was thicker or warmer, more in the sense that there was more of it to press down on her skin. That felt nice, though she couldn’t explain why.  
  
“Gods, Chrom, I’m sorry,” she choked out once her breathing was mostly under her control. “Y-you just lost your sister, and I’m here, blubbering like a baby. Some tactician I am.”  
  
“You’re a great tactician,” he insisted, helping her sit back up. “A mediocre tactician wouldn’t have been able to come up with a plan like that. Before you were around, Frederick and I tried to formulate strategy— between us, the best we could really come up with was to ram the enemy until they ran way.” He chuckled, but Aviae wasn’t laughing.  
  
“If my plan last time had been better,” she mumbled. “If I’d accounted for the possibility of foul play, do you think it might have worked?”  
  
“Hey, none of that,” Chrom frowned. “I can’t say for sure what could’ve been if the circumstances had been different. But I know Plegia pulled a dirty trick there. Something about that was bothering me, actually— it was like they knew what we’d try to do, and planned accordingly. Like someone had told them the way you thought.”  
  
That made Aviae pause for thought, a little frown on her face— which was a good sign, as far as Chrom was concerned. If she was thinking, she’d be alright.  
  
“I can’t help but feel that someone did,” she finally said. “Though if I’d known they knew what I’d do, and planned accordingly, I can’t help but wonder if it would end up the same. If… if Emmeryn would react the same way.”  
  
Chrom grew quiet. “I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand how Emmeryn thinks,” he mused. “All my life, she made everything seem easy. Nothing bothered her, nothing could ever shake her. Maybe she was just good at hiding it from Lissa and I, but… gods. I never could’ve anticipated she’d do something like that.”  
  
He lowered his head, gritting his teeth, but Aviae could see his chin trembling. And it was easy to see why he thought that— Emmeryn had been the Exalt, loved by her people, whose very presence seemed to make everything feel a little more hopeful. She had people that loved her. Aviae supposed she’d never know what had really happened.  
  
“I know I only met her a few times, but you’re very similar,” Aviae remarked. “You stand the same way, and you have the same nose. And you carry yourself in a way similar to her, too. It’s hard to explain. But when I look at you, I feel like if you needed to lead an army, a country, you’d handle it just fine. Like it’s easy for you.”  
  
Her words echoed his. Chrom looked up, letting tears run down his cheeks. He offered Aviae a grateful little smile, rubbing his eyes on the remaining sleeve of his shirt. “I didn’t know you noticed things like that.”  
  
“It’s a tactician thing,” she dismissed. “Noticing how people hold themselves. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”  
  
“I could say the same for you,” he replied. “A flaw of the species, I’ll assume.” He handed back her glasses, and she brushed the dust off before setting them back on her nose, pushing them into place by the bridge.  
  
Aviae pushed herself to her feet first, dusting off her knees, and helped Chrom back up as well. “You know, Chrom, you’re remarkably clever. Even if you didn’t notice your sister was married.” She said it nonchalantly, tugging her coat into place, but Chrom blinked in surprise.  
  
“Emmeryn was married?” he said quizzically. “To whom? I’m sure she would’ve told us about that. Unless she did while I wasn’t listening.”  
  
“That pegasus knight,” Aviae explained. “The one always standing next to her, the captain. You mean you really didn’t notice?”   
“No!” Chrom cried. “Well they did a good job of keeping it professional, that’s for sure…”  
  
They really hadn’t, but Aviae didn’t say that. “Sure, Chrom. Now we should probably see if the others are on-task.”  
  
“My sister, married,” Chrom muttered as the two of them exited the strategy room. “That can’t be true. I would’ve noticed.”  
  
“Are you sure about that?”  
  
“Yes! Well, probably.”  
  
“Mm-hmm.”  
  
“… Probably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why yes i do slip emm/phila into everything i write and no i won't stop


	18. Assault

Aviae liked being in battle. It was the one place she really felt in control, waving commands to march or attack from a perch near the center of the battlefield and picking off soldiers in her range with her crossbow. The stakes were high enough to be thrilling for her, and the sweet promise of victory was held high above her head as if it were daring her to climb up and get it. She was absolutely at the center of it all, able to evaluate a situation, assess the possibilities, and come up with the best possible solution. It wasn’t quite a game to her, as much as she found the stakes exhilarating, but the way she controlled it was similar to the way a chessmaster knew every move his opponent would make three turns before they made it.  
  
The stakes here, especially, were high. The battle had a decisive air to it— when they killed the Mad King, the war with Plegia would be over. Aviae held the fate of all of it on her shoulders, under a silent vow to never lose her grip as she carried the Shepherds towards the sweet promise of victory.  
  
Though there was an element of enjoyment in it, Aviae wasn’t there for the fun of it. She was there to _win._  
  
There was only Gangrel himself left, and reinforcements wouldn’t be coming anytime soon. Yet the king still fought, the twisted grin he’d borne at the start of battle contorted into a snarl. Aviae envisioned him moving into her range, her firing a bolt that flew true straight into his forehead and out the other side. For once, she and the little red-tinged voice in the back of her head were in agreement— _he must pay._  
  
Gangrel ignored Chrom, stalking straight towards Aviae’s tree. No foliage would fool him. She knew how likely it was she’d die there, but that didn’t stop her. Gangrel needed to pay for what he’d done— trying to execute Exalt Emmeryn, causing the mayhem that started the silly war in the first place, running Plegia into the ground. Aviae felt a sense of strong loyalty towards Plegia, a loyalty she dared not voice, and it saddened her that seemingly no one else could see what a truly beautiful place it was. Gangrel had been the reason her old home and her new one could not coexist. For that, Aviae would make him pay.  
  
He raised the zig-zagging sword he wore and blasted Aviae’s tree with an arc of lightning. His skulking, steady pace did not falter, even as Aviae jumped out of the tree and rolled to the side to avoid the crater where the tree had once been.  
  
Gangrel arched an eyebrow as he finally stopped, two meters from where Aviae stood, steadfast, on the dry Plegian soil. She had been born on such soil, and here she would defend it.  
  
“So the rumors are true!” he announced, holding his arms out. “The whelps of Ylisse truly have employed a Plegian traitor to their rag-tag band of misfits! How much are they paying you, little girl? Hundreds of gold pieces? Thousands?”  
  
Aviae didn’t answer, loading a bolt into her crossbow. She glared at him with all the fury and contempt her tiny body held. She hated him for causing Chrom and Lissa and the Shepherds and all of Ylisse such pain, and she hated him for dragging the good name of her country  through the dirt. She felt her blood boil— she wanted to fire at him, to shoot him full of bolts even after he was dead, and then to kick his bloody carcass for good measure. It scared her a little that she could want something so violent and hateful, but she wanted it so badly her hands itched.  
  
Gangrel let out a mad cackle. “So hostile! And yet in another life, you would be my subject, perhaps attacking these _Yisseans_ as a Plegian general.” He spat the name of Ylisse like it was a bone he’d accidentally bitten into.  
  
“I would never bow to you,” Aviae growled, holding up her crossbow with her eye staring down its shaft. “You do not deserve the name of Plegian.”  
  
His face twisted into a snarl. Faster than she could process, he lunged forward and struck her with the crackling blade, cutting a gash in her shirt and her stomach. She flew backwards, saw blood start to gush from her abdomen, felt a searing pain that she didn’t really pay attention to. Her crossbow flew from her hands as her back hit another tree trunk, tumbling to a stop several meters from Aviae’s reach. And yet every nerve in her body burned with anger— she would kill this man with her teeth and nails if she had to.  
  
“Aviae!” Chrom shouted, taking a step forwards.  
  
“Stay back!” Aviae shouted back, closing one eye against the pain. “He’s mine.”  
  
Gangrel scoffed. “And I thought _you_ were supposed to be the tactician, little girl. Letting petty venegeance get in the way of victory is a fool’s move.”  
  
He slashed at her again, cleaving the tree in two and leaving the air crackling, but she dropped into a roll to the side, coming up crouched but unarmed. He shot a bolt of magic at her again, sending her flying with a spray of rocks and clods of dirt, as her mind frantically tried to come up with a solution. This wasn’t good.  
  
Gangrel came up to her, but instead of attacking again, he picked her up off the ground by the shoulder of her shirt. She could smell the meat on his breath from the length of his arm as she tried to dig her stubby nails into his hand, to no avail.  
  
He sneered. “Such a pity you turned out to be a traitor,” he remarked, raising his sword once more. “You could have been a fine tactician under me. Perhaps even more.”  
  
Aviae felt her nerves scream in anger. She bared her teeth in a snarl, and did the only thing she could think of— she punched him, hard enough to hear the snap of his teeth being knocked out.  
  
A spurt of blood came out of Gangrel’s mouth, head snapped backwards and a red indention of Aviae’s fist on his chin. He staggered back, dropping Aviae unceremoniously on the ground, doubling over and clutching his jaw.  
  
Aviae got to her feet, wiping blood away from a dark scrape on her cheek. “If being a traitor means loyalty to the true Plegia, then hang me for treason any day.”  
  
She could’ve gone to get her crossbow and shot him, or picked a rock off the ground and thrown it at his bleeding, ugly face. But she didn’t do that, and instead balled up one of her fists and took a running start towards him. The edges of her vision turned red, but this time it didn’t hurt, like it did when she tried to suppress what the voice that went with it told her. To the contrary, she felt energized, fueled by every ounce of anger and hatred she felt towards Gangrel in that moment.  
  
Her fist connected squarely with his nose, blasting him backwards further than she should’ve been able to, and he landed with a sickening crunch several meters away. He didn’t move.  
  
And that was that. They had won. And Aviae had killed someone with her bare hands.  
  
The aftermath was not nearly as sweet as she thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its gonna be fun when he shows up again like "haha remember that time you punched me into the sun"


	19. Protection

Aviae would’ve gladly joined the celebrations, if she’d been allowed to leave the infirmary.  
  
It wasn’t a joyous, rowdy celebration, but there was no doubt an air of relief had settled comfortably around camp. It was like the entire camp had taken a breath, set their weapons aside in favor of peacetime. At least for now, peace had come to Ylisse.  
  
Now what was Aviae supposed to do?  
  
Besides vegetate on the cot in the infirmary, of course. The wound wasn’t life-threateningly deep, but the magic sword had burned the edges of the wound and the shock had caused damage no one was quite sure what to make of yet. It wasn’t bloody, but it hurt like an absolute hell, and the elixir they’d had to use had been a whole new level of agony. It _still_ hurt, even with salve and bandages applied and use of a stave.  
  
Frederick, once again, had found himself sitting next to her and stitching up the damage to her coat. Something told him he’d be doing quite a lot of that in his future, if Aviae accepted Chrom’s offer— she didn’t have a home to go back to, as far as anyone knew, so Chom wanted her to stay in Ylisstol with him as his adviser (because all the gods knew how much he needed one).  
  
“Is it finished yet?” she said hoarsely, making Frederick smile fondly.  
  
“Not yet, milady,” he replied. “You’ve done quite a number on this coat. I can scarcely tell what damage is from before you became a Shepherd and what is after. It can’t be the first war this coat has gone through.”  
  
“It probably isn’t,” Aviae shrugged, wincing at the pain it caused. “It could be the last, though. There’s no need for a tactian in Ylisse anymore, unless another war starts. I could just leave and no one would have any reason to look for me.”  
  
A frown creased Frederick’s face as he looked over at Aviae, who was leaning back on the cot and staring listlessly at the ceiling, her glasses set aside and neatly folded on the table next to her.  
  
“I would,” he said in a moment of boldness. “I would miss you. And I’m sure Chrom would, too.”  
  
“I’m not talking about emotion, Frederick, I’m talking about logic,” Aviae insisted. “Sure, you might, but missing me alone isn’t any reason to look for me. What good is a war strategist with no war? Not much, I’m sure.”  
  
“After a certain point, emotion becomes logic,” Frederick tried to explain. “No one is a completely logical being. You possess emotions, too. Are you saying that back there, when you took on Gangrel unarmed, was completely driven by the fact you thought it was the best logical choice? I won’t believe that.”  
  
Aviae sighed. “I can’t argue with you, can I?” she conceded. “It seems I can’t do anything without you watching my back.”  
  
“Someone has to look out for you,” Frederick replied. “Since you look out for all of us.”  
  
“That’s a good arrangement,” Aviae decided. “I’ll look out for you, and you look out for me. We should stick to that.”  
  
 Frederick felt a smile reach up to his ears. “Indeed we should, Aviae. Indeed we should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thats how morgan was born


	20. Ready

As much as Aviae liked battle, she admitted she was fond of peace as well. Even though there was no international conflict, the everyday problems Ylisse experienced that fell to her to advise Chrom about kept her mind active. She spoke often with the Shepherds that stayed in and around Ylisstol, especially with Miriel and Ricken in the Mage’s Tower while she went there for research. She visited Frederick so often that eventually she just moved all of her belongings to his home and that was that. The other Shepherds wrote letters, and thus Aviae learned about who was getting engaged and married to whom, when children were born and to which pairs. Even Chrom had a child— a tiny little girl that toted toy swords around the palace and called her ‘aunt Avi,’ which had made Aviae nearly burst into tears the first time. Peace, it seemed, wasn’t so bad.  
  
Aviae had almost grown used to it by the time five years had passed. Her battlefield maps and formation diagrams were packed away, her desk instead filled with building plans and terrain maps and detailed diagrams of magically-powered prosthetic limbs, and stacks of opened letters she was in the process of replying to— telling Nowi about her research, listening to Miriel boast about her daughter, sending Kellam interesting facts she’d discovered about anything at all because she didn’t want to leave him out.  
  
Chrom knocked on her door one day and told her the circumstance, with the little princess Lucina at his heels as always, and Aviae glanced back to her box of battlefield maps and books of war strategy.  
  
The possibility of another war was a grim one, but Chrom didn’t have it in him to be down about it.  
  
“Ready to win another war, stragetist?” he said to her, offering his hand.  
  
She pushed her glasses up on her nose, and took it.  
  
“As ready as you are, captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the road for now. Aviae will return soon enough, though! Thanks for reading, everyone.


End file.
